


where the love light gleams

by ProfessorSpork



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5 Times, Christmas, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Gift Fic, Gift Giving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-12 00:49:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16863115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorSpork/pseuds/ProfessorSpork
Summary: Four times Peggy brings Angie back a gift from her “business trips” (and one time she forgets).





	where the love light gleams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 Cartinelli Holiday Exchange. Originally posted to tumblr December 4, 2015.

_(one.)_

 

When Angie strides into the automat three minutes before her shift starts, she has to do a double take. Sitting in her customary booth is Peggy Carter, sipping her tea like she hadn’t just dropped out of Angie’s life without so much as a by-your-leave a little under a week ago.

Not that she needs to ask permission or anything, but still. A heads-up would have been nice. That’s what friends do, right?

Irene grumbles about it while she clocks out in back. “The dame’s cheating me out of my tip, Martinelli,” she insists. “She just wouldn’t take the damn check. What’s she waiting for, Christmas?”

Angie laughs and swats at her, then finishes pinning her hat in place. “I’ll split it with ya, how’s that sound?”

“Sounds like a racket.”

“Who me?” Angie smirks. “I’m quiet as a dormouse.”

“That ain’t what I meant and you know it!” Irene hollers, but Angie’s already through the service doors and into the dining room, still giggling as she goes.

Peggy beams when she sees her. “Angie! I was beginning to worry I’d missed your shift entirely.”

“You’ve done a good job missing it the past few days,” Angie’s mouth says, without any permission from her brain.

Peggy seems unfazed, but then, she’s only half paying attention as she rummages around in her pocket book for something. “I was on a business trip, actually.”

“Switchboard operators go on business trips?”

“They do when they’re being exploited as glorified secretaries,” Peggy grumbles, then brightens. “Aha! Here.”

Peggy holds out a small piece of paper—a postcard? Angie takes it, both baffled and pleased to be on the receiving end of a gift from Peggy.  _Greetings from Washington, D.C._ it says, over several white buildings that all look basically the same. Angie’s sure they’re all pretty important monuments, but to be honest she couldn’t tell them apart if you paid her. She was never all that good at civics.

“…’d have mailed it to you, but I realized I don’t have your address,” Peggy’s saying. Angie belatedly wonders just how long Peggy’s been talking, because she hasn’t been paying attention at all. “And honestly, I probably would have beaten it back to New York, anyway.”

She flips the card over.  “It’s blank.”

Peggy blinks. “Well, yes.”

“You’re givin’ me a blank postcard.”

“Obviously had I mailed it I would have written something on it.”

“Oh,  _obviously,_ ” Angie teases, and it’s the best she’s felt in days. Even if it is a real clunker of a present.

“Was that terribly uncouth of me?” Peggy asks around a smile.

Angie can’t help but smile back. “You’re the one who’s English, English. I don’t know from couth.”

Peggy laughs so hard tea comes out her nose. And she leaves a tip so good, Angie doesn’t even care that she has to split it with Irene.

…Much. She doesn’t care much.

 

 

_(two.)_

 

The next time Peggy goes on a business trip, she and Angie are neighbors in the Griffith.

Once again, though, she disappears without even a word of warning, and once again, she’s gone for  _days,_ and just… the first time, it was a little annoying. A little off-putting. This time, they  _are_ friends, Angie’s sure of it, and…

Well. Her feelings are a little hurt, is all.

Would it have killed Peggy to mention something? It’s not like they drop business trips on you from out of nowhere. Those things are planned in advance.

But Angie’s not dwelling on it. She’s got her own life to think about, and plenty of other friends to keep her busy, and two—count ‘em—auditions she’s gotta be ready for next week. She spends her days running through choreography, her nights at home practicing lines until she’s blue in the face.

Which is what she’s in the middle of when there’s a knock on her door. She scowls; can’t they hear she’s literally halfway through a monologue?

“One sec!”

The knocking continues.

Pissed, Angie stalks over to her door and throws it open. “You made me lose my place, ya— _Peggy?_ ”

Angie doesn’t know why she’s so surprised to see Peggy in front of her, holding a briefcase in her hands like a schoolgirl. Maybe she kinda thought one day Peggy would just show up at breakfast again, no explanations, and that would be that. Instead, it’s—

“Angie, I missed you!” Peggy exclaims, dropping her things in order to wrap Angie in a sudden, tight hug.

“Um.”

Angie can count on two hands the number of times she and Peggy have touched. Every embrace, every accidental brush, every well-meaning squeeze.

She has initiated every single one of them.

“Peggy, are you… drunk?” It takes a second to get the word out because even as Angie says it, she doesn’t really believe it—but the smell coming off Peggy’s breath is unmistakable. She pulls out of the hug and steps to the side; a clear invitation. Peggy smiles and walks into her room.

“Once we landed, I was invited to drinks,” Peggy hedges, which both does and doesn’t answer the question. “By my coworkers.”

“The annoying fatheads?”

“The very same.”

“Well that’s progress, I guess.” Angie frowns. “Wait, landed? You got to  _fly_ for this little trip of yours?”

“It was hardly first class, believe me.”

“Jeez. I’ve never flown anywhere.”

“You aren’t missing much,” Peggy says. Her smile is suddenly tight. “I’m not much of a fan of planes.”

“Where’d you go this time?” Angie asks, sweeping an arm towards her bed. Peggy obediently takes a seat.

“Russia.”

“Ha, ha,” Angie rolls her eyes. “If you’re gonna be like that, then I’m gonna ignore you.” And, true to her word, she grabs a nightgown from her drawer and disappears into her bathroom to change.

When she comes back out, Peggy is examining the items above her desk with interest. Including the—

“You kept this?” Peggy asks, pleased, holding up the postcard from D.C.

“It’s a perfectly good postcard. I might send it to someone else someday.”

Peggy raises an eyebrow, clearly not believing her at all. Angie tries to be offended by that but she can’t quite work up the effort. “Speaking of, I actually got something for you.”

“For real this time?” Angie asks as she watches Peggy rummage through her briefcase.

“Well, I’m not sure if it will hold up to your exacting standards, but I did try,” Peggy says, removing a package wrapped in paper.

Angie takes it from her. “Can I open it now?”

“Hmm. On second thought, no,” Peggy says, with an annoyingly attractive smirk. “I don’t know that I could handle disappointing you twice. This way you’ll have time to rehearse your response; I fully expect you to come down to breakfast tomorrow gushing about how much you love it.”

Angie wants to say… she doesn’t even know what, but  _something_ to that, but Peggy’s up and at the door before she can think of anything.

“I’d better try and sleep this off; I’ve got work in the morning. Goodnight, Angie.”

“Glad you’re back, Pegs. Sweet dreams.”

The second the door is closed behind her, Angie tears through the paper, unearthing a delicate wooden  _matryoshka_ doll. Angie shakes her head at how far Peggy was willing to go for the Russia gag, swallowing her laughter—she didn’t know Peg had it in her.

Out of curiosity, she starts twisting the first doll, pulling at it gently until it comes apart. The one inside it is even more beautiful. And as Angie keeps working her way to the center, one doll at a time, she suddenly thinks—she wonders—

The last doll, as small and thick as the tip of Angie’s pinky, is solid. There is no hidden message, no… well. For a second, she might’ve convinced herself there was a note.

But it’s just as empty as the postcard.

She’s starting to think she should just get used to that.

 

 

(three.)

 

Less than a week after they move into Howard Stark’s penthouse, Peggy is called away again. Another one of her “business trips.”

Of course, now Angie knows exactly what they really are. She thought she’d be excited to be included, or… or even just annoyed, as usual, that Peggy’s gone.

Instead, she’s terrified.

All she’s been told is that Peggy would be gone for several days, and that she wouldn’t be crossing international waters. But as far as the kind of work Peggy’s doing, the danger she’s putting herself in… all Angie’s got is her imagination, and she can imagine  _plenty._

It’s all she can think about. Peggy on that ledge, and no one there to offer a hand and keep her from falling. How dazed and lost she looked when she was led away in handcuffs. And both of those things happened in the relative safety of the Griffith! It’s enough to drive Angie crazy, but the worst part of it all isn’t even the not knowing.

It’s the idea that, if something  _were_ to happen… Peggy’d have no idea how much she’s loved.

Angie’s not stupid. She knows she doesn’t have a chance in hell. Gals like Peggy don’t like other gals, and even if they did, Angie wouldn’t deserve her. But Peggy still thinks she’s all alone in this world, that it doesn’t matter if she makes it home or not, and that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

So instead of letting herself worry about the kinds of trouble Peggy could be getting herself into, Angie directs her thoughts towards how to confess the way she feels—preferably without losing Peggy forever in the process. It’s a delicate idea, one that requires subtlety, and that’s never been Angie’s strength.

When she comes home one night to find Peggy’s coat on the stand and her shoes by the door, for a moment Angie’s actually almost annoyed. Leave it to Peggy to come back early, when she still doesn’t have a plan.

Then she hears a soft “Angie, is that you?” from the living room and she forgets about anything else. Angie doesn’t let herself think—she just runs.

“You’re home you’re home you’rehomeyou’rehome _you’rehome!”_ Angie babbles, launching herself at Peggy as soon as she’s in sight. Luckily, Peggy’s more than strong enough to hold them both up, catching her with ease and laughing as Angie’s legs wrap around her waist, arms at her shoulders.

“Miss me, darling?” she teases, and there’s no visual injuries, there’s nothing, and the tension in Angie’s shoulders finally releases.  _She’s okay._

“What did you bring me?” Angie blurts out as Peggy sets her down.

Peggy raises an eyebrow. “Who says I got you anything?”

“You always did before. Or was that just to throw me off the trail? Now that I know about your secret double life I don’t need to be plied with blank postcards or  _oh my god_ you actually went to Russia, didn’t you?”

“Only the once,” Peggy says, retreating to her office and bidding Angie to follow with a gesture. “It’s horribly domestic of me now, though, isn’t it? Coming home to you after time away with some little present. The only thing missing is dinner in the oven.”

“It won’t happen again, dear,” Angie snarks back, hoping her sarcasm will distract from the way the tips of her ears have turned red at the insinuation. “So sloppy of me. And I’m afraid I’ve left my pearls in my other boudoir.”

Peggy laughs, fetching a small box from her desk. “Well they’re not pearls, but perhaps this will help complete the picture,” she says, holding it out for Angie to take.

Angie swallows hard. “Are you—?”

“Open it,” Peggy urges.

Inside are small earrings. Delicate, hung on what Angie’s sure is real silver.

They’re violets.

“Peg…” Angie gasps, using up all of her air. She’s suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“I—I saw them in a shop window and I just. Well. I had a hunch… or rather, I  _hoped,”_ Peggy babbles, not looking at her, “that… that they would suit you.”

Angie wishes the floor would stop dropping out from under her and the room would quit spinning; it would be a lot easier to concentrate on Peggy that way. “You’re asking me if I’m a violets kind of girl, Peg?” she repeats, certain that she’s somehow misheard.

Peggy looks away a moment, abashed, then holds her chin high. “I suppose I am.”

There aren’t any words left in Angie’s head, absolutely zero, so she does the only thing she can think of: takes Peggy’s cheeks in her hands and kisses her, swallowing Peggy’s breathy, grateful  _“oh thank god”_ as their lips meet.

 

 

(four.)

 

Angie is  _seething._

She had woken up this morning to a note on her pillow—not altogether unheard of, though Peggy’s really not the love note type—telling her that Peggy would be out of town for a few days and  _not to worry_ —which has also happened before, though never quite like this.

Never written on the postcard Peggy got her nearly two years ago.

Never on the eve of Angie’s opening night on Broadway.

Angie could spit.

It’s the fact that Peggy  _tried_ that gets her. Using the old postcard was obviously meant to be a grand romantic gesture—another rarity from Peggy—and the fact that she could put in effort and still miss the mark so spectacularly is just…

The worst part is, Angie’d known something like this would happen. Not this particular slight, not this particular night, but… Peggy is wonderful, but she’s far from reliable.  She doesn’t even know why she bothered comping a ticket to her performance; in hindsight, it seems obvious Peggy wouldn’t make it.

That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Looking around their shared bedroom, tokens from Peggy’s previous  _business trips_ are abundant—scarves and snowglobes and a pair of opera glasses Peggy nabbed from some high-class operation, ‘in case Angie wanted to use them at Ebbets Field.’

She’d trade all of ‘em to get Peggy’s ass in a front row seat where she promised she’d be, for once.

When Peggy shows up at Angie’s dressing room nearly two weeks later, Angie’s all set to ignore her. To send her away, even—give her a taste of her own medicine.

Except that Peggy’s brought a ring with her.

And Angie really can’t bring herself to say no to that.

(“We’re putting it in your vows, English—no more missing any opening nights. It’s rude as hell.”

“Right. I’ll just tell the Communists I’ve got theater tickets, then, shall I? And to call back another week?”

“You’d better!”)

Angie’s never been able to stay mad long.

 

 

(one.)

 

If she dies, Angie is going to kill her.

Of course, Peggy thinks, Angie’s just as likely to kill her if she shows up on Christmas Eve night looking as horrid as she’s sure she does, so perhaps it’s best to just throw in the towel now.

Fortunately—or perhaps  _un_ fortunately, she’s truly not sure anymore—Peggy has never been a quitter.

Peggy frowns down at the carpeting on the elevator floor. She doesn’t remember it being polka-dotted; it’s tacky even for Howard’s standards. Did they renovate while she was gone?

She blinks in confusion as a few more spots suddenly bloom beneath her, then lets out a laugh when she realizes it’s her own blood. She’s  _dripping._ That’s hilarious.

She’s also listing rather dangerously to one side.

Perhaps she should have gone to the hospital after all, as Sousa suggested. But no—she  _promised_ Angie that she would be home for Christmas, and she is sick of breaking her promises. So she’s a little woozy. It’s nothing she can’t patch up in her own bathroom.

Getting up the strength to knock on the door is a bit of an endeavor. But it’s worth it when she catches Angie hollering at the perceived intruder as she marches through the house.

“…any clue what time it is? What kind of idiot are you, disruptin’ folks on Christmas damn Eve—” Angie’s rant halts abruptly when she rips open the door and sees who’s on the other side.  _“Peggy.”_

“Merry Christmas, darling,” Peggy mumbles, stumbling a bit as she lurches through the door. Angie crouches to catch her, wrapping Peggy’s good arm around her shoulders so they can share Peggy’s weight.

“What happened?!”

“Rather nasty fellow—knives for hands. Makes for a very efficient fighter but I’m not sure how he gets by otherwise.”

“I’m sure he’s got people for that.”

“Not anymore he doesn’t,” Peggy reports proudly, then promptly wobbles to one side and turns green, bracing herself against the wall with a sick-sounding croak.

“Hey, hey, hey, none of that,” Angie says, taking a precautionary step back. “If you’re gonna ralph on me, English, you’re gonna at least have the decency to wait until we’re on tile and not Howard’s fancy rugs.”

Peggy frowns, and swallows. “They’re not  _that_ fancy.”

“Fancy or not, they’re still worth more than I make in a year. And I mean now, not what I used to. C’mon, we’re almost there.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t get you anything this time,” Peggy admits, struggling to hold onto consciousness as Angie hauls her the final few steps to the bathroom. “A poor showing, considering the holiday season. I’d had plans.”

“You’re here,” Angie says, softly, reverently, as she lowers Peggy to the edge of the tub to take a look at her injuries. “That’s enough. That’s more than enough.”


End file.
